It’s Time to Face the Facts

14 Apr

I do wish young people today felt a bit more comfortable in their own skin. I can’t imagine the pain some teenagers feel when they look in their mirrors and shudder at what they see. I am incredibly sympathetic to what these freaks must be going through. It’s sad.

Yet I can completely understand why they’re in such a state. As depressing as it is that youngsters are so insecure, I forgive them for it. Refusing to accept spots, chubbiness, and perspiration issues—hating the self while one’s hormones are going loco is pretty much par for the course, as Tiger Woods might say. I am very proud to admit that, when I was in all my pubescent glory, I was able to hold my head high despite the occasional epidermal mishap or hormonal eruption. (I know it may be hard for some of you to believe, but, yes, I haven’t always been perfect.) Partly because of my grandmother’s support and partly because of the blindingly obvious fact of my inherent superiority, even as a teenager I had an appropriately commendable sense of self-pride.

As I look at the little shits across the avenue trying to hide their self-hatred by harassing the passers-by, it’s clear they don’t possess the skills and talents I did at their age. This is understandable, because special people like me are few and far between. But where is their support? Do they not have family members or teachers to strengthen their confidence in the way my grandmother did mine?  Of course, I know part of the problem is that many teenagers’ parents are no more than teenagers themselves and therefore they have very little to be proud of in their own lives, let alone succeed in passing any pride onto their children. I’m going to resist the temptation to dwell too much on this, though, as there’s little we can do, save mandatory sterilisation, to address this issue.

However, there is something we can do to help. And here, I address specifically our public figures. Those in the public eye should serve as role models of self-assurance.  You never know—some mousy 13 year old may see a photo of a celebrity beaming with pride and be inspired to hate herself just that little bit less.

Most famous women are aware of this responsibility. They take their “look” a bit more seriously than our famous men. Women step up to the plate to demonstrate that, by looking classy and confident, they obviously do feel comfortable with who they are.

The men seem to struggle more. Probably the most photographed and talked about men in our country right now are the candidates for prime minister. Yet, neither one of them sends a very good message with their appearance and levels of confidence. I believe that Gordon Brown does not even want us to look at him—what is that communicating to us?

And the other one, well, just look at him. Both of their faces tell me, “Things are not too great all around”; if that’s what they say to me, god only knows what those faces say to the kiddies.

 

Recently I’ve stumbled across this man, Christopher tells me he goes by the name of Nick Clegg. Now here’s a face that says, “I am who I am and am damn proud of it.” This is a face to lead a country, this is a face that would show young people that self-acceptance is a good thing. I’d like to get in touch with him to gauge his interest in joining politics as with a few suggestions from me, he might really be able to make a difference.

Many young people today need a little boost in the self-confidence department. Of course their parents should help them more, but we know we can’t always count on some kinds of people to do the right thing. That’s where the rest of us need to take some communal responsibility. Every time I am photographed or go out and about, I do so with a cool, calm certainty that I hope will motivate kids to feel as good about themselves as I do about myself. I’d like all adults, but definitely those in the public arena, to follow suit. I ask you, please, love yourselves and show the world you do. If you can’t do that for the rest of us, especially our young people, the least you could do is to just keep your face out of ours.

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Put Me In, Coach, I’m Ready to Play Today

1 Apr

I’ve never tried to deny the fact that I’m a keen athletic supporter. There’s really nothing I find more fulfilling than watching a group of young men (or young women now, in our more progressive times) running, bending and stretching while working together as a team to rise to the crescendo of victory. It nearly takes one’s breath away, or at the very least sets the pulse pounding and the cheeks blushing. I’m not too particular even when it comes to sporting activities, though clearly anyone who enjoys American football is an imbecile.

I suppose if I had a gun to my head and were being forced to choose only one sport to watch for the rest of my life (a position it’s unlikely I’m ever to be in, I’m aware), I’d have to negotiate with my captors for a pair of favourites, cricket and baseball. If, after a short deliberation which may or may not include a phone call to “Mister Big,” they insisted I choose only one, I’m afraid I must plump for baseball, if only because of the importance it played in my childhood and because, when it comes to wood, I prefer to see a man holding a long, thin one over a man with a short, wide one.

Since I’ve been in England, a day hasn’t passed when I haven’t been asked to explain the rules of baseball. I have and will continue to refuse to do so. Explaining the rules of baseball to English readers is like explaining the rules of cricket to Americans; each one is so complicated, it takes a real clever clogs (such as I) to understand them. I mean, look at the Australians—they’ve been playing cricket for a good number of years, and they still haven’t grasped the basic rules.

Instead of focusing on how to play, I’d rather share a few more important aspects of the sport of baseball, as we near the opening of the season over in the US.

A baseball field is in the shape of a diamond because baseball is considered the sport of kings and everyone knows kings like diamonds. Technically, I suppose it’s really a square at an angle (with a base at each corner), but we mustn’t quibble. A grassy area extends beyond the top of the diamond; this is where outfielders (generally considered weaker players or those who drink excessively) are banished as most of the action takes place primarily between the bases. The importance of the bases is, of course, key to baseball. I think it’s common knowledge all over the world that a man who can get past first base, second base, third and then goes all the way is an extremely satisfied man.

Baseball players are an interesting breed. They are extremely superstitious as a group and many of their personal playing rituals involve the grabbing of their, shall I say, areas.  Many players need to clutch their (or a teammate’s) crotch at least once or twice before even getting to the plate. (I once dated a catcher who refused to even get out of bed without first giving his jewels a tug). One less pleasant feature of baseball players is their penchant for spitting. You can’t be in the presence of a shortstop without his spitting at least once every 2.4 seconds (this statistic is based on credible research as well as my own personal observation). The spitting fetish is undoubtedly tied to the early baseballers’ faith in the medicinal properties of tobacco, which they would chew in the misguided belief that it gave them superpowers (this myth remains despite the discovery of anabolic steroids). Interestingly, a baseball player is allowed, nay, encouraged to spit anywhere and everywhere within the ballpark, except on the ball itself (italics added). If he spits on the ball, it is considered an ironically named “spitball,” and that fucker is thrown out of the game.

Baseball has created a number of debonair heartthrobs and wacky characters over the years whose legacies have endured. Superstar Babe Ruth, of course, married Marilyn Monroe and later went on to invent a candy bar. “Shoeless” Joe Jackson changed his name to Ray Liotta and starred in a number of major motion pictures. Joe Dimaggio was immortalized in the Simon and Garfunkel song, “The Boxer.” Yogi Berra, a profoundly intellectual player and manager, later became known the world round for his hilarious pic-a-nic basket hijinks in Jellystone Park. I look forward to meeting the characters who will be swinging their bats and popping their flies this season.

Finally, the thing that I love most about baseball is not the complicated rules, the action on the field or the tight trousers of the players, but it’s the atmosphere of a baseball game that I find so delightful. The way the fans encourage their local team and offensively abuse both the opposition and the umpires is so heartwarming.  Of course, everyone joins in during the “Seventh Inning Stretch,” where those who have managed to stay seated for much longer than beer consumption should have allowed can stand up, stretch their legs, nip to the toilet, and sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” There’s a real sense of camaraderie in baseball stadiums when everyone comes together to support all that is good about America. Who wouldn’t love such a relaxing and friendly environment? It’s fun for the whole family.

To all those oiling up their gloves and dusting off their jerseys in preparation for Opening Days all over the country (most of which are bound to be called off due to bad weather), I take my cap off to you. Enjoy your day and root, root, root for the home team for if they don’t win, it’s a shame though they will have at least 161 more opportunities so quit your crying, pussies.

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Should A Boy’s Best Friend Really Be His Mother?

14 Mar

I have never been a huge proponent of days set aside to celebrate reproduction (Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Cinco de Mayo, etc).  To me, the simple fact that one participated in the merging of egg and sperm hardly makes one deserving of a whole day of recognition. However, I am clearly alone in this view. Germany has its Muttertag, America its Mother’s Day, and today we have Mothering Sunday.

As you know, I have a mother and I have resigned myself to sending her a card (and possibly ringing her, if I’ve enough vodka in the house) on the second Sunday of May. I will do that, because that is what one does. However, I do feel that some people take the whole “honour thy mother” thing a tad too far.

I am not unaware that mothers make sacrifices for their children. And I acknowledge that most go to some trouble to care for their offspring. Fair dues. However, my mechanic regularly services my car (and even buffs the interior leather), and I certainly don’t feel compelled to “honour” him with perfume and flowers on an annual basis. Why mothers should be celebrated simply for doing their job is beyond my comprehension.

Have you noticed it’s often men who feel obliged to go out of their way on Mother’s Day (without any regard for the fact that the woman who actually pays their salary needs to be driven into town for brunch with her new editor)? Maybe my confusion lies in the fact that I am a daughter. Clearly mothers have different expectations of daughters, which could cause the relationship to be somewhat strained. I asked Christopher why sons are the worse offenders in terms of showering adoration on their mums; silence was his only riposte. I guess, bringing him into a world of beauty and sophistication means nothing, whereas the simple act of buying and laundering his pants for sixteen years apparently deserves lifelong gratitude.

Of course, having never known the apparent “joy” one experiences after giving birth to a younger and generally smaller human, I cannot speak from personal experience of the so-called maternal bond. Clearly, there must be something to this veneration of “a mother’s love” for nothing without some basis in reality could be tolerated by the public for so long. It isn’t that I begrudge a mother and son wanting to acknowledge their mutual affection—-more power to them. However, I simply think it needs to be kept in check (particularly if it interferes with my work schedule). The umbilical cord must be cut at some time or heaven knows what could happen.

As I said, though, I know I am the lone voice of sanity with regards to this issue. So, “Happy Mother’s Day” to all of you mothers out there. A good day to you all. Enjoy this afternoon with your son. Please don’t let me and the future of my career affect you in any way. I’ll make my own way to my meeting, don’t you worry. Savour your time together, because tomorrow he’ll come back to me. Never you fear.

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Immediately Confine All Pigeons and Wayne Rooney for Further Study

22 Feb

I continually find it astounding that people criticize the Sun for not being a worthy newspaper.

Evidence to the contrary: today’s article about Lord Rees, astronomer to the Queen, and his interesting comments about alien life.

Never mind that there is no context for his comments. It’s not our place to concern ourselves with that. The fact that it’s likely he made these comments at a conference of The Royal Society almost a month ago is also neither here nor there. Timeliness is hardly a key issue when it comes to reporting the news. Yes, other news outlets may have covered the conference in appropriate detail at the time, but my friends, it was only the Sun who invested almost an entire month in researching the facts and interpreting them in a way that is relevant to our lives. I say we should be thanking God for that newspaper, not criticizing it.

For if people wanted to really understand the mysteries of the universe, they would have become scientists themselves. Clearly, the Sun knows the only fact we really need is that pigeons and/or Wayne Rooney may be aliens living among us. Now that we have that fact (a fact that no other newspaper dare touch let alone illustrate with photographic evidence), we are much better able to live our lives accordingly.

Informing us about current events and provoking cultural debate are what good newspapers should do, and I’m not sure anyone does it better than the Sun. And if we are ever in an any doubt about what to make of the news this esteemed organ contains, we need only turn to Page 3 where a pair of tits will make it all crystal clear for us.

Thank you, Rupert Murdoch, Dominic Mohan, and Poppy, 18, from Somerset. Without you, I may have never known the truth.

_____

UPDATE: Poppy makes another appearance, giving her philosophical analysis of the 2010 election and how our very basis of freedom is rooted in tits.

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Campaign for Real Taste

14 Feb

You’ve undoubtedly read about the brouhaha this week over a new “taste” being available for purchase in British supermarkets. It’s called umami,which apparently means “deliciousness” in some language or another.  A refined palette such as my own, of course, did not need Mr Waitrose to introduce me to this flavour: I’ve been familiar with it since Master Satõ Matsumoto and I first gorged ourselves on gherkins in that German beer garden oh so many years ago.  I do find the brand name and promotional material visually pleasing and have therefore sent Christopher out to purchase a tube, but primarily to display as an aesthetically gorgeous trinket, rather than as some breakthrough culinary ingredient.

For I do not accept that this so-called umami deserves to be championed as a “new taste.” (Friends, remember, just because Sky News reports something does not make it so.) Previously, our tastes were sweetness, sourness, bitterness and saltiness.  Quite a bit of variety in there already, and despite its similar suffix, I just don’t think “deliciousness” fits in with the four classics. Personally, I believe we should stick with the originals and if you find yourself aching for a word to describe that olive-like, anchovy-ish, seaweedy flavour that this “new” taste supposedly embodies, may I suggest you simply use olive-like, anchovy-ish or seaweedy. They may not be found in the OED (yet), but you knew what I meant, and let’s just leave it at that.

However, if I were to propose a new taste, a true “No. 5,” I feel most strongly it should be Parma Violets. Think about it: now there’s a taste that is truly like no other.

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Cold Comfort Farmville

25 Jan

Recently, Oprah Winfrey’s personal physician Dr Phillip McGraw doled out some advice to a woman (whom we’ll call Teresa because that was her name) about her addiction to playing games on Facebook. Although I have never watched his television broadcast, I understand he has produced a number of books so I’m sure he is a perfectly competent doctor. However, I feel I must take issue with his advice to Teresa. It represents a fatal misunderstanding of the changing world in which we are all living in.

Apparently, Teresa is addicted to playing a game called “Farmville.” In this game you can do all the things that farmers do (including but not limited to raising crops, breeding livestock, watching your family’s legacy crumble before your very eyes and refusing to let traveling salesmen sleep with your daughter). To play Farmville, you must be signed up to Facebook, a new and exciting way to “network” “socially” on the “Internet.” Teresa has family of her own, and they seem to feel neglected by the amount of time she is online, tending to her virtual responsibilities rather than her real life ones. Dr Phil’s advice was quite simply to “unplug it and walk away,”  (which I believe, in talk show speak, is the opposite of “You go, girl”).

This is very bad advice. Very bad indeed. I appreciate that the good doctor may not be as aware of the importance of technology as I am; however, it simply makes no sense to encourage anyone to stop using Facebook. Social networking sites are as essential to a thriving economy as were sub-prime loans—-we need them to get to where we want to be and damn the consequences. If Teresa’s family feels a little abandoned, well, that’s a small price to pay. Whatever her line of business, be it Avon sales, arts and crafts or head of the PTA, Teresa has acknowledged that she needs to be “connected.” Dr Phil would never have dreamed of asking a 1960s businessman to give up and walk away from his alcoholism for it was an essential part of clinching the deal. Today social networking sites have taken the place of the boardroom. With every poke, Teresa is climbing the ladder of success.

Personally, I admire Teresa’s dedication to her farm. Has not Dr Phil heard that people are starving all over the world? Teresa’s contributions to the food chain might just be enough to kickstart the end to global famine. The fact that her crops don’t really exist is neither here nor there in my book. My guess is that she is geographically limited in terms of raising actual food for actual starving people; so why shouldn’t she raise virtual food for virtually starving people? It’s better than doing nothing, Dr Phil!  Teresa should be seen as a pioneer for her willingness to focus on growing food for the planet, even at the expense of looking after her own children’s nutritional needs. Everyone acknowledges that it is challenging being a parent in today’s day and age. Teresa is setting a good example for her children by showing them that there are other things in the world more important than them, and I see this as an excellent lesson in global responsibility.

A far more sensible suggestion for Teresa would have been to encourage her children to join Farmville and Facebook. I’ve personally found that since I started communicating online, my relationships with my family have improved immensely. They can stay up to date with what’s going on in my life, and I needn’t see or speak with them so really it’s a win-win situation. Having her children as Farmville friends on Facebook will not only intensify their family bond (for what child could feel neglected when his mother is constantly available to fertilize his field), but it should also expand her acreage and, as a result, increase her harvest profit margin.

Keep farming, Teresa, I’m behind you one hundred per cent. I award you a blue ribbon for being both the Farmer and Mother of the Year.

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What Fresh Hell is This?

20 Jan

If you have come here to find out for whom you should vote in the upcoming election (whose date looks to be May 6th, but my goodness, you shouldn’t be relying on me to schedule such important things), I’m afraid you will meet with disappointment. I am well aware that many people are such blind followers of celebrities that they have created a whole industry dedicated to emulating them.  Undoubtedly there are people out there who would love to be more like me (and why wouldn’t they?); however, I refuse to influence anyone’s decision about such an important topic as which party should rule our country. So if you want someone to tell you how to vote, you will need to go to elsewhere.

However, I do feel it is not an abuse of my overwhelming popularity to make a simple statement about the most important issue facing us right now: the economy.

I’m not oblivious to the fact that we’re in a “recession”; just because I have an endless stream of income doesn’t mean I’m not aware that others do not. I read the papers and I occasionally watch the telly, and as you know I have nothing but respect for John Humphrys and if he says there’s trouble, I know there’s trouble.

Furthermore, as a woman of the people, I care about the people. If my neighbours are no longer able to afford to have their paper delivered and instead have to walk down to the news agents themselves, well, that’s worrying. However, I have recently learned that the situation might be even worse than anyone had previously imagined. What has really “blown my mind” is the way it is affecting local council budgets. As a result, the lives of everyday people are going to be affected in ways beyond our current comprehension. Those with a strong constitution may be able to face the entirety of the new budget proposals of East Devon District Council, but for the rest of you, I will just highlight a few alarming cuts:

Cease maintaining town clocks and coloured festooned lights

Now we’re not talking about the removal of the town clocks and coloured festooned lights (I believe this implies that the white lights are safe). In many ways, completely destroying them would be preferable. As it stands, the clocks and lights will still be there, just not maintained, serving as haunting reminders to the townspeople of how low we’ve gone.

No planting of hanging baskets or flower beds at gateways to the town

A gateway without beds or baskets? And the Council expects citizens to still be able to walk with their heads held high?

The closure of Littleham public toilets and ending the deep cleaning of toilets.

Now certainly just because we’re in dire straits does not mean that we need to use the loo any less frequently than we did in times of fecund plenty. Our times are so tight that not only are our excretion opportunities more limited but when we do have to go, the toilets will only have been lightly edulcorated. This must surely indicate that we are in crisis mode.

We are a country in distress. People, friends, citizens of one of the top six or seven countries in the world—please keep these devastating effects of the economic downturn in mind when making your decision at the ballot box.  Think of those poor people of Sidmouth, unable to look at flowers falling from baskets as they rush to unhygienic public conveniences while being unsure if the town clock is correct. The government is chosen by the people for the people. Choose wisely.

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Taking My Responsibility Very Seriously

10 Jan

While thankfully I rarely have to do this, I am prepared to apologise for being wrong about the weather. This winter has been rather cold, apparently the coldest in the last 1000 years. So while I still stand by my original comments on British weather in general, I was concerned that some readers may take my comments about the English overreacting to the cold to heart and do something stupid. Therefore, I want to take a moment to discuss some of the dangers of cold weather.

I was shocked to find out that when the thermometer shows below 0C, pensioners in Britain die at the rate of one every six minutes.  I am led to believe this has something to do with the fact that many of them are on the poorer spectrum. Shame on you, British Gas! I, for one, would be happy to pay an extra 2p each month if it would help keep an older couple from freezing to death under their Littlewoods duvet (especially if they still owed on it). Our nation is in a positively frightful state when we let our pensioners die from the cold rather than through more usual means.

However, bad weather can be treacherous even for those of us who still have reasons left to live. Ice on the roads in Britain can kill you as soon as look at you. But even if you don’t venture away from your house, you can put yourself at risk. You could take a tumble as you fetch your morning’s milk and many a cardiac arrest has resulted from snow removal. Just this morning, I myself found my heart rate racing like a bastard as I watched Christopher clearing my path. It’s never bad to see a young man’s exertion, but it’s important not to go beyond one’s limits.

Perhaps my most perilous exposure to the freezing weather happened during Trenton, NJ’s coldest winter. A gentleman friend and I had gone to the theatre in the City as we normally did on Saturday evenings; that night we were honoured guests at the opening of Dolly’s Destiny, starring the gorgeously drunk Quentin Wisteria. On the drive home, my friend (whose name currently escapes me) and I decided to stop off at the Lucky Diamonds Motel (extremely reasonable hourly rates) in New Brunswick. After, we popped into a liquor store to purchase a bottle of whiskey, which was fortunate for as soon as we had gotten back onto I-95, the weather made a turn for the worst. We were virtually “snowblinded.” Darren (I’ve just remembered his name) temporarily lost control of our sedan and we ended up in a bit of a ditch. Because we were dressed rather dapperly, we decided that fleeing the car was not a viable option. Instead we cracked open the drink and spent a delightfully dangersome hour or two until we were rescued by some charming policemen. Some of you may remember the consequent news story—believe me, we were fully clothed when the officers arrived and I have long since forgiven them for arresting us as charges were dropped once they realised just who exactly we were. In many ways, I am lucky to be alive after that evening and although I never spoke to Darren again once he reunited with his wife, the fact that he and I came so close to meeting our maker together means he will always hold a special spiritual place in my heart.

Hypothermia is not a joke, my friends. Listen to me.  I hear it’s quite an unflattering way to go. So indulge in some cocoa, keep well bundled and snuggle up in front of the fire, Britons, until the cold snap passes. I don’t want any of you suffering frigidity under my watch.

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Happy Christmas, You Silly Little Muppets

25 Dec

5cc5e8d015bff8502baee7663c9229a5Can I just say how happy I am to have all of you? Honestly, despite my international popularity, in many ways, it’s you, my readers, who mean the most to me of all. Honestly, I mean it, I love you, guys. You’re my best friends.

I hope you’re having a lovely Christmas day. I am. I mean, I am really having a lovely Christmas. My morning was just lovely—-I was up a bit late last night so I’m afraid I was still in bed with Christopher arrived. But what a lovely surprise to hear him rapping at my bedroom door, delivering a lovely cup of tea (I had the decency not to comment on the lack of toast). After my bath, he and I exchanged gifts. He got me a lovely piece of artwork for my boudoir. It’s such a thoughtful pressie. Christopher is so lovely. Later, we had a lovely meal. And, of course, the Queen’s speech. Well, that was lovely.

Christopher and I are just tucking into some lovely sherry and maybe a mince pie or two. I trust you are, too. Have a lovely Christmas, dear ones, I love you. I mean it. For some reason, I’m just so full of love that I could even kiss a ginger if there were one here (though thankfully there is not).

And to all, a good night!

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The Rage That’s Killing Our Holiday Season

15 Dec

I’ve not really wanted to do this, but my letter box and phone line have been deluged with requests for my opinion on what the media appears to consider a very important issue of the day.

The Christmas Number One.

Before I comment on this year’s debacle, I would like to point out that in other parts of the world, they do not have this problem. What is the most popular song at Christmas is of no more matter to Americans than the name of the British Prime Minister or the number of civilian casualties in Iraq. In Sweden they prefer focusing on the love of family; in Slovakia, they’re too busy cooking prunes in cabbage soup; in Mauritania, they celebrate the birth of our Lord; and Australians worry a bit more about whether or not to top themselves than they do about what record disc is selling the most copies. You know I never like doing this, but this is one time when I must say, Britons, sort your heads.

Nonetheless I live here now and, because part of my career is having my finger on young people’s pulses, here is my final word. Swearing is generally inappropriate (even more so on morning radio, I hope you were instead tuned into Thought for the Day instead); I thought everyone was well aware of this. Saying bad words is neither clever nor cute. But fuck me is Simon Cowell’s music shite.

Music is a vital part of my life, as it should be in all our lives. I’m not much of a singer myself, but I have inspired countless young men to tickle their ivories and pluck their G-strings.  I think we all can agree (at least according to recent polls in Boys’ Brigade Gazette) that I am beloved by all segments of the British population, so perhaps this most recent tribute to me could be the Christmas Number One that will finally unite our nation.

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